


Hush, Little Baby

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Birth, F/M, Gen, Premature Birth, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Everything is perfectly fine.Or at least that's what they tell themselves.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Comments: 5
Kudos: 135
Collections: Feanorian Week 2020





	Hush, Little Baby

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.

The babies are so small. 

He thinks he could hold both without the slightest difficulty. 

He isn’t, not at the moment. Nerdanel is holding the older one in her arms, and she looks like even that slight effort exhausts her. She has moved from the bed only long enough for new sheets to hastily be laid down, and even now, she is still propped up against the pillows.

She looks so pale.

Feanaro wants to sit down beside her and cling to her hand, but the little one in his arms starts crying whenever he stops moving, and in truth he is glad of the excuse to pace in constant, anxious circles.

He had been so afraid when Maitimo was born, but everything had been fine. Everything had been fine so many times that he had forgotten to be afraid.

He won’t make that mistake again.

“The weariness will pass,” Nerdanel says, and her certainty cannot change the threadiness of her voice. “It always does.”

It has never been like this before, he wants to say, but he doesn’t, because the last thing he wants to do is introduce her to doubt. He needs her to be certain, to hold to life with every ounce of her stubborn will.

“Of course it will pass,” he says with certainty he does not himself feel. 

“And the children will grow,” she presses.

“Taller than Maitimo, even,” he says, and he can almost picture it.

Maitimo is out in the hallway, reassuring his siblings that everything is fine. Curufinwe and Carnistir will likely believe him; this is the first birth Curufinwe has been connected to, and the first one Carnistir is likely to clearly remember.

Makalaure and Tyelkormo know better.

Feanaro knows better.

“And we will call them Ambarussa,” she continues.

“Which one?” he asks, pausing a little in his pacing. The little one in his arms immediately complains, and he starts up again.

“Both of them,” she says, and the jut of her chin says she already knows this will be a sore point.

He jerks to a halt, and this time even the little ones cries aren’t immediately enough to restart the motion. “You can’t just call them the same name!”

“Why not?” she demands. “You share a name with Curufinwe; why can’t they share one with each other?”

“I gave him the name I don’t use,” he points out. 

It is a good name, an honorable name, and if things were different, perhaps he would have chosen it, but far too much of his mother had been lost for him to voluntarily sacrifice the last gift she had managed to give him.

“And one of them might prefer their father name,” she says.

“Might,” he stresses. “What if they both want to use their mother name?”

She slumps a little. “At least we wouldn’t get their names mixed up.” Her voice is wistful, but she is also conceding. “Fine. Give me a minute. I’ll think of something.”

She falls asleep before she does.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself firmly, as he eases maybe-Ambarussa out of her arms. She had argued with him. She had been almost her usual self.

He starts pacing again, and the younger twin at last ceases crying.

She will be fine, and the twins will be fine, and everything will be absolutely, perfectly fine.

He’s sure of it.


End file.
